


Still

by asylum69



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Friendship, Multi, Shocking violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1336270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asylum69/pseuds/asylum69
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Greg Lestrade meet for the first time, under less than fantastic circumstances. They hover on the edges of each others' radar for some time and then something happens which changes things for both of them.</p>
<p>Chapter 1/?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shooting The Breeze

Shooting The Breeze

 

It was Tuesday.  It had to be Tuesday, the queue for the sandwich shop on the corner was twice as long as any other day, 'cos that new girl only worked on Tuesday and she was quite a looker.  The food they dished out at this particular hole-in-the-wall wasn't as good as some other places nearby but the road work crews and lads who worked in the local shops obviously thought she was worth it.

Greg didn't care.  The only thing that was concerning him was the length of the queue.  He just wanted to eat before his stomach shrunk and died. Suffering from an almost total state of exhaustion and the thumping headache accompanying it wasn't helping his mood.  He'd been run off his feet for three days straight on the Cathy Williams case and having to go and inform her parents that she had finally turned up dead had just about taken the last of his energy.  He was tired, aching, desperate for a real drink, but most of all he just wanted to get his fangs round a burger.  Double cheese, all the trimmings, with chips; and to cap it all there was some young tosser at the front of the queue who was having a barney with the gorgeous looker.

Greg had just had enough.

"C'mon, mate, just pay for the food and move on, willya?"

Tall, torn jeans, greasy-looking light-grey hoodie, what looked like an old gym bag, and one heck of an attitude, the yobbo at the front, turned to face the newly-promoted Detective Inspector, and flipped him the bird.  For a moment that was all Greg noticed and bubbling over with complete lack of patience now, Greg started forward to hustle the young bloke out of his and everyone else's faces.  There were five people in between Greg and what felt like starvation, as well as the yob, and the rest of the queue were obviously getting nervous.

As he got closer, Greg noticed something else though, and his empty stomach hit his shoes.  'Dammit!'  One look at the guy's eyes told Greg that he was very obviously high on something which meant that it would probably be a much better idea if Greg arrested him and took him down the station.

His tiredness left him with slipping reflexes however, as the next moment the guy was off and running; too fast for Greg to even think of catching him.  He struggled in his mind to try and put some kind of description together to put in a report, and came up with just enough of the basics to satisfy.

Meanwhile the other people in the queue were half-heartedly clapping him for doing something about the unpleasant situation and hurriedly giving their orders.  An older lady appeared through a doorway at the back of the kiosk and started to help out.

'Thank God for that', he thought. Maybe there was a chance that he would get some food this side of next Christmas after all.

And then it started to rain.

 

* * *

 

 

Putting the last of the files he had been working through onto the trolley at the side of his desk, Mycroft Holmes called his secretary on the intercom to come and return them to the archives.  It seemed as if there was a slight chance that the situation in Eastern Europe would take a distinct turn for the worse within the next three months or so, judging by the indicators which were so similar to those noted back in 1978.  There were definitely wheels that needed to be put in motion in the next day or two, if certain calamitous events were to be averted. If only he had been free to give the matter his full attention, he might have diverted the militant groups involved from becoming so focused on a single set of circumstances.  Dammit, it was so like his selfish, wastrel, little brother to go off on another one of his binges - which was undoubtedly what he was doing - right when Mycroft needed to have a clear head.

'Where on Earth can he be this time?' he wondered impatiently, knowing that he would have to put some new people onto the job of finding Sherlock, because it seemed that he was managing to evade the usual squad of watchers.  Even high, it seemed that Sherlock could almost smell it when he was being surveilled.  He reached out to the intercom once more and buzzed his new PA, Anthea.

She answered him promptly, her voice all business and professionalism. 

"Yessir?"

"Send Dickson over, would you?  I need him to recruit some new eyes to keep on my brother."

"Yessir, right away."

A light pattering filtered through his senses and Mycroft glanced at the leaded windows.  Rain.  The Met office had got the forecast right for once, it seemed.  Exhaling slowly, Mycroft gave a moment's thought to his new PA.  She was very good at her job, this new girl, although a bit too ready to be messaging on her phone, for Mycroft's liking.  Still she was a lot better than the last one ...

 

* * *

 

Shuffling over more towards the darker shadows in a corner of the draughty, derelict car park where he was holed up, Sherlock looked up, momentarily captivated by the twinkling of the lights in the sky.  Sometimes they seemed to almost sing strange alien sounds to him and then he would be soothed by the feeling that he was not alone.  Something was trying to communicate with him ...

He knew that the only reason he could see them at all was because the building was so dark and the alleyway at the side of the car park was so narrow that lights of the city out there couldn't get through; only the stars.

Absently turning and twisting the pieces of the puzzle cube with his long fingers, solving the puzzle by rote, was almost a meditation and along with the ambient, high-pitched hum of the relative silence singing to him, he revelled in the stillness that he had been able to acheive.  Nothing moving, nothing nagging at him, no sharp, tearing, writhing boredom, he felt he was almost floating away.  It was cold but he barely noticed. He certainly didn't care.

No-one else was there.  Most of the homeless guys in the area were still out on the streets, begging or shagging for doss or drugs money.  He would be all alone here for awhile.  Well, not quite alone.  There was a dog somewhere nearby, barking, getting closer.  Sherlock began to be pulled from his reverie by the sound of it.  Claws on concreted floor scraped at his ears and made him shiver - the dog was coming in.  He hoped it wasn't vicious.  He didn't fancy having to fight the thing off.  He looked over towards the sound of the pattering paws and the dog slunk into view, sniffing everywhere, turning and twisting in place sometimes, looking for something.  Somewhere warm to curl up, probably. He didn't seem to be looking for a fight ...

Leaning up on one elbow, Sherlock half-heartedly patted his thigh.  "C'mon, c'mere boy, got a niiiice warm blanket over here, c'mon."

The dog, raising its head at the sound of Sherlock's dreamy voice, stopped in it's tracks. Stopped sniffing and looked at Sherlock.

"Come on, I won't eat you, so don't eat me either, c'mon, niiiice blanket, come on."  Shuffling back into the corner a bit more, Sherlock left more space on the blanket, trying to entice the dog over to him.  Finally it gave in and wandered over, a bit warily at first, but then it moved in closer and settled when Sherlock didn't move.  He gave him his palm to smell and the dog seemed satisfied and put his head between his paws and fell asleep almost immediately.  Moving back over the dogs snout and between it's ears, Sherlock began stroking the dog, intermittently scratching behind it's ears, almost as if not thinking about it at all.

But he was thinking about it.  Opening doors and running down corridors in his mind palace until he caught sight of the beloved red-setter, waiting for him. 

He lay back down next to the dozing dog, still slowly and absently stroking its rather matted fur and if a tear or two mingled with the rain that pattered down lightly across his face, he didn't notice; just huddled himself and the dog further into the corner and finally slept.

 

* * *

 


	2. Didn't See It Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is at his lowest ebb. Can Gregg catch him before he falls?

**Didn't See It Coming**

 

_'Cold; need a blanket. Why isn't there a blanket ...?  Oh, yeah, that's right, I'm on the rough ...'_

Sherlock felt around him for the mutt that had been around the previous night; opened his eyes, groaning at the stiffness in his hips, back and shoulders as he tried to sit up.  Looking around, it became plain that whatever dog had been there, had gone.

_'Looking for breakfast ... breakfast, God, I'm starving! What time is it?'_

He felt for the watch on his wrist but it was gone.  Coldness flashed through him as he wondered what else had been taken whilst he'd been out of it last night.  Almost panicking, he searched hurriedly through his jacket pockets and then his old gym bag that held all his possessions - well, the ones he always kept on him - and found, to his horror, that his money, fix equipment, drugs stash and cigarettes had all gone.

"Oh, GODAMMIT, NO!!  All my stuff, the bastards!!  I'll bet it's that Edwards, isn't it, ISN'T IT!!?"  

Someone who had been sleeping behind an abandoned dumpster yelled at him to keep the noise down and Sherlock pounced on him.

"Where's my STUFF, you bastard, where IS it!?"  Giving him an unforgiving kick in the shoulder, Sherlock picked the guy up by his coat lapels and held him, shaking, right up to his face.

"Waddaya talkin' 'bout?  Ain't got your stuff, leave me alone ..."  The skinny youth in jumper and torn jeans, tried to pull away, eyes drifting closed, as he fell asleep again.

Not satisfied, Sherlock gave him another kick and started to frisk him.  It didn't take him long to do and he came up empty.  Sherlock picked him up again, roughly, and shook him until he opened his eyes.  "Did you see anyone here?  Last night?  Someone's stole my STUFF!!"

The guy rolled his head, apparently trying to think.  Sherlock shook him again.  

"Ed ... Edwards.  I think.  Now piss off, mate, and leave me alone, awright?"

Letting him drop to the concrete, Sherlock turned away and began running towards the chain-link fence, only stopping to pick up his gym bag and sling it round his shoulders.  He leapt for the wire and somehow scrambled over it, dropping into the alleyway on the other side. From there he headed for the main road, intent on finding the man he was convinced had taken his things.  

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Slamming on the brakes, Gregg just stopped the car in time to avoid an oblivious pedestrian lost in whatever she was listening to on her headphones, took a few seconds to yell at her through the open window and then sped off in the direction of New Scotland Yard.  He had been on a case all morning, talking to a witness to a murder which had taken place the previous day, and it had taken him longer than he'd expected. He was late for a meeting with the Super, which he was not looking forward to anyway, all of which put him in a rather foul mood.  That and his desperate need for coffee and a fag, neither of which he could afford the time to have, was making him feel rather queasy, so he was not driving at his best.

"Dammit!!"  Someone else flashed in front of the car, but this time tripped, and Gregg was nearly sick as he slammed on the anchors with all his force, his heart hammering in his chest.  Wrenching open the door he scrambled out of the car, convinced that he'd actually hit whoever it was, and dashed round to the front of the car.  There was someone on the ground, a young man, groaning and holding onto his upper arm.

"Oh my God, are you alright!?  What the hell did you think you were doing!?  You could've been killed!"

The young man was trying to struggle up to a sitting position, turning in place as he did so, and Gregg saw his face, getting an instant flash of recognition.

"YOU AGAIN!!"  It was the kid from the other day near the sandwich place.

Looking into his face, Gregg could see that the young man's eyes were angry; so angry.  Too angry.  Getting up, and apart from his arm, apparently uninjured, he yelled at Gregg.

"Piss off and leave me alone!!  I'm alright and I'm late!"

"LATE!?  What the hell FOR?" asked Gregg, for some reason utterly frustrated by this guy.

"A very important DATE!"

With that the kid took off like a whippet, injured arm notwithstanding, disappearing down a side alley on the opposite side of the road.

"WHAT the ...?"   _'Oh, hell, he's not the only one,'_ thought Gregg, remembering his own appointment.  Sighing loudly, and gesturing in a less than polite manner at the drivers stuck behind his stationary car, honking their horns, he got back in the car and drove off.

~

On arrival at the Yard, however, he was met with a surprise, and, initially, a welcome one. 

He was greeted by the desk sergeant, who told him that his meeting with the Superintendant had been postponed and that there was someone waiting to see him in his office.  Leaning on the counter, Gregg took a minute to get his breath back.

"Postponed 'til when?" he asked the desk sergeant.

"Sorry, Gregg?  What?"

"The Super.  When?"

"Oh, that hasn't been agreed on yet, apparently."

"Agreed!?"   _'What the hell?'_ he wondered.   _'Since when did the Superintendant have to agree over meetings with his detective inspectors, with anyone?'_

Heading off to his office, he found himself debating over who his visitor could be.

Striding through the bull pen he reached his office door and went straight in.  Standing in the middle of the office, leaning on a carefully-folded umbrella and wearing a conservative, immaculate and obviously very expensive suit, was a man approaching middle-age, and with a face that reminded him, somehow, of an egg custard.

He had been thinking that if this visitor was the reason the meetup with the Super had been put on hold, then he was grateful, but _this_ ...

Gregg _hated_ egg custards.

_________________________________________________________________________


	3. Cold Turkey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg, Molly, Mycroft and a very sorry-for-himself Sherlock somehow engineer hope for the soon-to-be Consulting Detective.

Cold Turkey.

Greg was still shaking his head and raking his fingers through his rapidly - greying hair, long after Mycroft, with swish of his brolly that Greg would soon become accustomed to, was gone. Talk about Big Brother ... what the hell ... ? How the hell did that smarmy bastard keep track of a toerag whippet like ... what was his name again? Something from the Shakespeare he'd had to plod his way through at school ... Shylock? No, Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Complete with spook-alike sibling, Mycroft. Honestly, that bloke put the willies up him, good and proper.

Anyway, aforementioned toerag was being attended to by the station doctor in one of the cells just along the corridor, so, Greg supposed, he had better go see if the young idiot had survived.

An hour ago, a couple of competent looking heavies had manhandled Sherlock Holmes from the back of a rather expensive looking Audi into the back entrance of New Scotland Yard* and straight down into one of the cells. This was where Greg had found him, having been accompanied by a tight-lipped Mycroft, who was obviously more than irritated by his younger brother's behaviour. No, there'd been some real, last-chance-saloon desperation in the man's face.

Sherlock had been in a bad way. He'd obviously been beaten up, his face cut and bruised, and he was shivering from what Greg had no difficulty diagnosing as the first stages of withdrawal from whatever the hell he'd been taking. The doctor was all cool efficiency and he left the male nurse who had accompanied the heavies, with some strict instructions for the young man's care over the next few days, before he finally exited the cell, with a short nod of acknowledgement to Greg, and disappeared up the corridor to go and check on a drunk that had been brought in a few moments previously.

Despite his poorly condition, Sherlock was yelling abuse at all and sundry, so he and Mycroft left him and the male nurse to it. Greg was about to insist that the two of them return to his office so that Mycroft could give him some kind of proper explanation about what the hell was going on, but before he could martial his thoughts properly, he found himself being bundled into the Audi and whisked away to St. Bart's hospital. On the way there, Mycroft ignored most of his indignant questions and busied himself with a couple of calls on his mobile and retrieving a laptop from a concealed and locked compartment beneath the back seat.

'Not the usual executive saloon, then', thought Gregg and immediately upgraded Mycroft from some kind of politician or lawyer to someone much more likely to be British Security Service.

Once inside Barts' Greg followed Mycroft down to the last place he would have expected to be going; the morgue. In the basement, the place was somewhat chilly and appropriately, rather depressing in ambience. He was confused as to why they were in the morgue rather than upstairs going to see a consultant about Sherlock's 'rehabilitation', until he saw the morgue's only live occupant, busy at her rather gruesome work.

Molly Hooper was muttering away, seemingly to the deceased woman she was slicing into, and Gregg couldn't help but smile, wryly. He knew the petite pathologist fairly well, having consulted with her over numerous murder victims which had found their way into her place of business. She was very good at her job, a bit shy, but a good sort, he reckoned, and he had secretly been rather attracted to her uniquely stoic and yet often upbeat personality, ever since he'd first met her. She was alright, was Molls, and he grinned slightly as she looked up from her work, rib cutter in hand and, noticing them, beckoned them over, with a friendly wave of her free hand.

"Come on in, shan't be too long," she chirped at them, and with that, returned to her 'client' as Gregg knew she sometimes called the bodies which came her way.

"Do you have a disc player available in here, somewhere?" Mycroft asked imperiously, as he swept in past Greg, waving a dvd case about in his left hand.

Molly raised her head a few inches from the chest cavity she was prodding about in and pointed to the small side office whose door was partially open.

Mycroft went inside and emerged after a few moments, wheeling a small cart with a tv monitor on top which was hooked up to a small dvd player which was on the shelf underneath. He positioned it to one side of the room and motioned to Greg.  "Bring chairs, will you?" he demanded, as if he owned the place. Greg gave him one of his 'looks' which normally instilled the fear of God into whoever he was after, but Mycroft seemed not to notice and merely plugged the equipment into a wall socket, and switched it on. Inserting the dvd into the player, he directed his gaze towards Molly once more. "Will you be long with that?" he asked, barely keeping from tapping his foot, judging by his impatient expression.

Molly took a little while to answer, then without diverting herself from her work, remarked that she would be at least another twenty minutes.

"Then I beg that you take a break to watch this, please, Miss Hooper, and finish your 'client' off afterwards. I don't think she's going anywhere, particularly ..."

The sandpaper wit finally extracted a change in Molly's demeanour: she stopped her poking and prodding, straightened up, and looked directly at Mycroft.  "What is it?" she asked, more coolly than Greg would have thought her capable of.

Mycroft looked back at her, affecting a too-polite smile.  "This is rather in reply to your question of the week before last, Miss Hooper; cctv footage of my younger brother ..."

Molly put her scalpel back into a dish on the cart which was beside her, stripped off her surgical gloves, protective goggles and mask, and made her way over to where Mycroft had set up his little viewing station.  She sat down next to Greg and murmured a quick explanation to him.  "He's been in here before ... Sherlock. Last time his brother brought him to get him tested we had to call security.  He can be very aggressive but I think he's just troubled and I asked Mr. Holmes what the problems were, if there was anything I could do to help."

Greg was still struggling with the fact that Mycroft Holmes seemed to be able to able summon up cctv footage at the drop of a hat.  "How's he get his hands on surveillance footage this quickly?"

"I don't know.  I think he's something in the government."

"Yeah ... no kidding."

Sudden, loud noise erupted from the tv's speakers and Mycroft pulled a face and looked quickly adjusted the volume knob on the set. The noise became recognisable as yelling, and Molly and Greg turned to see what was on the screen. The black and white footage showed what looked like some kind of closed-in factory yard, and there was a group of three or four youths who seemed to be attacking another lad. Also, there was another man, older, who was standing off to the side, who was observing the altercation with what seemed to be fierce concentration. The focus zoomed in and it became clear that it was Sherlock who was being laid into, and although his movements looked sluggish and awkward, it was obvious that he was not taking the beating lying down. He seemed to be trying to put some kind of armlock on one of his attackers but couldn't get the angle right. Also, he was yelling a constant stream of abuse at the fourth man who was outside of the fray.  The language was getting riper, and Mycroft, again pulling a face, turned the sound down and confronted Molly and Greg. 

"You see the trouble he gets into?" he stated rhetorically, looking particularly at Molly.  "I can't do anything with him. The more I try to get him to see sense, the more rebellious he becomes."

"I know the older one," said Greg.  "He's a known dealer and pimp and Christ knows what else. Got his hands into everything, that one."

"So why isn't he in prison yet?" Mycroft demanded, ascerbically.

"He's smart; and he knows people who should know better," Greg returned smartly, his face a picture of irritated disgust.

"Why does he take drugs? Sherlock, I mean," Greg asked.

"My brother has one of the sharpest and most hyperactive brains in the world," Mycroft explained, but he doesn't seem to be able to cope with its demands.  It's like a macine on a production line, unable to switch off, and if it doesn't have anything complex enough to to feed on - all the time - he starts to go off the rails.  He needs puzzles, layered, complicated puzzles, constantly."

"What do you want us to do?" asked Molly, totally engaged now. "He can't go on like this, he'll destroy himself."

Up until this moment, Mycroft had been standing off to one side, but now he pulled up a chair and sitting down, he leant forward and captured Molly's suddenly wrapt gaze with his own.  "Allow him access to your morgue and laboratory, Miss Hooper. Save him whatever body parts you can for him to experiment on, talk to him about your work, engage him in your world ... in short, give him work, and help him in whatever way you can."

Greg could see that Molly was intrigued by the possibilities of this request and it suddenly occurred to him, that this Sherlock might be someone that Molly was rather taken with, despite his obvious faults.  He hoped she was wise enough not to involve herself to much with the young man. He didn't like the idea of her getting hurt.  "And what do you want me to do?" he sighed, although he thought he could see where this was headed.  Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong.

"The same, detective inspector; but in your own field of work; consult with him on cases, let him attend crime scenes and benefit from his deductive skills.  I guarantee you won't be sorry if you do."

Okay.  Greg obviously hadn't gone anywhere near far enough when guessing at the parameters of the request.

"WHAT!?"

"I'm sure I was quite clear, detective inspector, please don't make me say it again. I hate repeating myself."

"Are you mad!? You can't be serious! I'll lose my job, and then who's going to help your brother?"

Mycroft's stoical expression budged not an inch. Not even the flick of an eyebrow.  "I told you ... let Sherlock use his very broad-based and considerable deductive skills on the cases you are having trouble with - which I am any judge, seem to be a fair proportion of your workload - and _you will not be sorry_."

The weighty prescence of the man who was pinning Greg frozen to the spot, felt suddenly, quietly dangerous; a predator who needed only to twitch a paw to bring a man down.  He found himself swallowing nervously and looking at Molly once more to guage her reaction a second time.  She seemed deep in thought as she returned to the corpse she had been working on and continued her post mortem once more.

He could feel Mycroft's sharp gaze still on him and felt trapped. How could he say yes?  And yet if this man was really as powerful as he suspected, how could he say no?  And if he had a chance to not only help keep this man's brother from self-destructing, but also increase the chances of bringing more of the city's seedy underbelly to justice, how could he walk away from that?

'All it takes for evil to thrive is for good men to do nothing ...'  His own mentor, Chief Superintendent Walker who was retired now, had drummed this tenet into him year in, year out, whilst he had been a youngster on the force.

Finally looking back up at Mycroft, Greg gave a short nod with which the other man seemed to be satisfied as with a generic, "Good day and thank you..." he turned and left.

Greg looked back at Molly once more and sighed.  "Molly ... you alright with this?" he asked her warily.

"Huh,hum," she murmured, still at her grisly work.

"Right, then," he replied, half-heartedly. "I'd better be getting back to the station. They've got Sherlock banged up in one of the cells right now and it's clear that I've got a long night ahead of me finding out just exactly who this young man is." He got up from his chair and made to leave. 

"He looked to have been pretty bashed up," Molly replied, suddenly stopping and looking up from what she was doing. "Is he being treated?"

"There's a doctor with him, yeah. Don't worry. His brother scares me too much for me to think of neglecting the arrogant sod."

"Greg ..." Molly once more downed tools and approached Lestrade.  "He can be a right sod. The first time he was brought in, he was perfectly horrible to me.  He can be very arrogant, like he's superior to everyone else.  But none of that is what he **_is_**.  I've seen little glimpses of what he can do ... and he's brilliant. Are you going to help him?"

"Are you?"

Molly nodded slowly.

Greg considered his position for a moment.  "Maybe I'm going insane, or my judgement's slipping or something. But for a man as cold and emotionless as Mycroft Holmes to care as much as he seems to, there's got to be more to this young man, than I thought. Besides, I don't really think he's left me much choice." He snorted a short laugh, and shrugged into his coat, which he had left over the back of his chair. "See you, Molls; take care,"

"You too," she called back, busy manhandling her client's liver into the weigh scales.

Greg Lestrade had made the journey from police car to morgue and back many more times than he would have liked. He'd dealt with murderers, rapists, terrorists, drug dealers, tea-leaves, prostitutes, the lot. It could be a very stressful job and was, very often; but he'd always known what he'd been getting into. Too much so, sometimes.

Now, all he knew was that he was taking his first steps into the unknown and he wondered just what it was going to cost him.

 

The End.

I'll be grateful for any and all criticism, so long as it's constructive, thanks. :)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has taken sooooo (hard not smoking, oh, no, er, sorry ...) long, but this is the final chapter ... er ... finally.

**Author's Note:**

> Have wanted to cover how Sherlock and Greg first got to know each other for quite awhile. This is not my first fanfic, but it is my first in the Sherlock fandom.
> 
> Don't know what anyone thinks so far.  It's actually been a really long time since I've written anything.  Let me know, pro or con, as long as it's constructive, I don't mind.  Hopefully I can get the next chapter posted within the next week, I'll try anyway.


End file.
